I remember the quiet before they named me.
Not silence, exactly.
More like listening earth.
Like the world holding its breath before the light turns.
My mother understood this before I did.
She did not teach me words.
She taught me seasons.
She taught me how to feel the moment when darkness reaches its limit.
How to recognize the pause before the return.
How to stand still long enough for the world to answer back.
That is how I learned what I was.
Not chosen.
Not sent.
Not owned.
I was happening.
They would later argue about my arrival.
They would fight over dates and stars and bloodlines.
They would build stories sturdy enough to imprison meaning inside them.
But what arrived was simpler than that.
Light does not descend.
It turns.
And when it turns, it does not ask permission.
I learned early what frightened them.
It was not power.
It was balance.
They sensed the mother current in me.
The listening force.
The way I healed without hierarchy.
The way I saw without judgment.
They did not fear what I could do.
They feared what I could not be controlled into becoming.
So they tried to soften me.
Rename me.
Sand down the edges where the goddess lived.
They mistook silence for submission.
My mother never corrected them.
She knew truth does not survive ownership intact.
It survives by dispersing.
So she let the story bend.
She let it fracture.
She let it be retold by men who needed it smaller.
Because fire does not need to be defended.
It only needs somewhere to move.
What I carried did not end with me.
It could never remain in one body.
It passed into hands that heal without permission.
Into women who remember without books.
Into fires lit at the darkest point of the year.
Into quiet knowing that arrives without language.
It moved into the ordinary.
That was always the plan.
If you are looking for my return, you will miss it.
If you are waiting for signs in the sky, you will overlook the ground beneath your feet.
I am not coming back as a figure.
I am coming back as a pattern.
You will find me wherever light turns instead of fights.
Where power listens.
Where balance is chosen over domination.
You will feel me most clearly when nothing is being proven.
My mother knew this would be the ending.
Not resurrection.
Not ascension.
But continuation.
They believed the story ended with my body.
But it ended with a season.
And seasons do not die.
They return.
Leave a comment